Smile
by flighty.thistledown
Summary: Oliver reflects on Hermione Granger's laugh early one morning, only to be discovered by her. Strong hint of OHr. Written for the cookie jar at Fiction Alley, June 2, 2003.


_disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter...wish I did, though!_

--smile--

--

He liked it best when she laughed. She would throw back her head in a carefree way, her long hair floating around her head like a halo. The corners of her eyes would crinkle, and her mouth would stretch into a smile-like shape. But best of all was her actual laugh—it settled low in her throat and it sounded like honey on thistles. Her laughter was deep—not like a man's, but not an annoying high-pitched giggle—and it slipped through the air like a mist, clouding everything until all he could focus on was the sound.

He was never the one that caused her to laugh, though. His crazy roommates, Fred and George Weasley, they caused her to laugh the most. But her best friends, Ron and Harry, they made her laugh when she needed to. Like the time she was worried when her cat, Crookshanks, was sick with some unknown illness. They'd sat up during the night with her, comforting her and eventually making her laugh at their antics.

Sometimes he wished that they didn't all share a house together. It would be easier for him that way. Then he wouldn't have to listen to her laughter every day and become upset that he wasn't the one who had caused her joy, that he wasn't the one who had coerced her into a vocal smile. But he did share a house with her and the others, and there was little he could do about it. Poorly paid Ministry lackeys couldn't afford rent on their own. So the eight of them had rented out the abandoned house in Hogsmeade together, each paying only a portion of the rent.

Once she asked him why he'd decided to quit professional Quidditch. And he'd told her, after a moment's thought, that the world's freedom was more important to him than a silly game. People, he had told her, are worth fighting for. Some might cheat and steal and lie, but in a whole, people were good. Every person was born with a heart—it was just what they chose to do with that heart that made them "good" or "bad." And she'd given him a wan little smile before handing him a mug of tea that she'd made for him. And suddenly he wished he'd said something candid, something witty to make her laugh for him. But instead he'd given her such a serious answer, albeit a true one. And whenever he recalled that particular memory, he heard his mother's voice whispering a warning into his ear: A moment lost can never be regained.

And so he searched for every opportunity to make her laugh. But he was never quick enough, never clever enough. Fred or George or even Lee would jump in before he could even think of something, causing her to laugh in delight. And he would berate himself for not bringing her that brief moment of happiness in a currently depressing world.

Sometimes he wondered what she thought of him. What was he to her? A big brother, a best friend, or just another male housemate? And then he'd wonder why he cared. Why he liked it best when she laughed, why he wanted to be the one to make her laugh. Sometimes he wondered if maybe he cared for her maybe a little more than he probably should.

He'd promised her, years before, that he would make sure she'd be okay. She'd called him her own big brother and hugged him tightly before heading off to bed. That had been the first night they'd all moved in together. It was before they'd decided to call their rented home "The Stairway," before Lee discovered that he had a green thumb, and before Oliver realised that hearing her laugh made him happy and sad all at the same time.

He was thinking about all of this one early morning while he stared blankly out the front window. He noted absently that the trim was in need of repair and that the windows were in desperate need of cleaning. But none of this mattered—he was too busy thinking of how to break the news to everyone that he would be leaving, that the Ministry had relocated him farther north to a station that was co-managed by the giants.

She startled him when she spoke. She asked him what he was doing up so early, but he didn't answer right away. He turned around, and in the dark he could barely make out the too-big robe that hung limply from her body. She held a steaming mug of tea in her hands, and he guessed that she had had trouble sleeping—he'd often caught her in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a book when nightmares or other things kept her from sleep.

He sat solidly down on the wooden window seat—wondering briefly where the cushions had gone. She seemed to read his mind, and told him that Ginny was planning on reupholstering them. As she told him this, she sat down next to him and asked again why he was up so early in the morning—it was at least fifteen minutes before dawn.

He told her that he was leaving later that afternoon, that he had no choice. He would be gone indefinitely, working with the giants and the old Muggle Highlanders that still knew and understood their world. He explained that he didn't want to go, but the director of their branch had decided he could do more good up in his native area.

She didn't say anything back for a while, just sat there in silence. And when she spoke, she stood up and turned to look out the window at the sun that was just beginning to peep out over the horizon. He couldn't see her face without craning his neck up, so he contented himself just rising from his seat as well while he listened to her words.

She told him that she would miss him—that he was rather dear to her heart and that she wished him luck—she'd heard that giants weren't always the nicest creatures to work with. And then she told him that, if he was willing, she'd be waiting for him when he finally returned. He stared at her a bit, unable to work any words past the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. But she seemed to understand his unspoken answer and turned to stare back at his face. She gestured towards the rising sun and smiled brilliantly. And suddenly he didn't mind that in the entire six years they'd shared a house he'd never once made her laugh. Her smile was more than enough. She spoke then, words that he'd repeat over and over in the following months during the cold winter mornings of the north.

"Smile, Oliver. The sun is rising."

--

--end--


End file.
